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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296408">Between Missions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshour/pseuds/endlesshour'>endlesshour</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Catch-22 - Joseph Heller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Milo Is A Jerk (Catch-22), Milo Ruins Everything</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:47:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshour/pseuds/endlesshour</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yossarian convinces the Chaplain to go on a date - and talks Dunbar and Clevinger into coming with them, making it a double date - and nothing goes according to plan.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clevinger/Dunbar (Catch-22), Robert Oliver Shipman | Albert Taylor Tappman/John Yossarian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Between Missions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've had this in the works for a week, it seemed like a good way to practice some writing skills! I hope you guys enjoy it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Yossarian squinted forward at the dusty Pianosa tundra. The sun was evanescing over the horizon, the warm orange glow enveloping anything and everything the light could reach. It was quite pulchritudinous and would have made an excellent picture had Hungry Joe been spending his camera film on anything other than fleeting attempts to capture girls breasts. The day was one of the most picturesque so far - maybe even the most agreeable they would have - and Yossarian hated it for everything he was worth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much longer are we going to walk?” Clevinger asked, breaking the semi-silence of the group.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar gave a listless shrug. “Until we get there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have a map?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Yossarian replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger’s face reddened slightly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yossarian!</span>
  </em>
  <span> I wasn’t talking to you, I was- nevermind. You have a map?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Dunbar replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had been walking for a total of five minutes and Clevinger, with his massive amount of personal composure, was growing anxious to reach their location. Yossarian was as well, but he wasn’t crazy like Clevinger was. Clevinger turned on Dunbar. “Where’s your map? Take it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can’t,” Yossarian said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger ignored Yossarian but not his sentiment, once again demonstrating his impressive amount of patience, and kept his eyes fixed on Dunbar. “Why can’t you? I thought you said you had a map. Next thing, you’ll be telling me that you don’t have the money to pay for dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” said Dunbar implacably, neglecting the second part of the statement, “I have a map.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger’s eye twitched in an apoplectic manner, but he made an effort to stay somewhat calm with the situation. He wasn’t angry per se, but a part of him couldn’t believe Dunbar had managed to convince him to come along in the first place. Or that he’d agreed to walk the mile to Milo’s mess tent where they’d have to pay for dinner as preferred to just getting the standard meal. Clevinger would take the standard meal at the officer’s club over walking a mile any day of the week. He sighed. “Then take out your map.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can’t,” Yossarian interrupted innocuously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well? Why can’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s in his tent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger furiously bit his tongue to make sure he didn’t lash out and let Yossarian make a fool of him. Yossarian was nearly as good at making a fool of Clevinger as he was of making a fool of himself, yet Yossarian was one of the few Clevinger considered must actually be sane on the base.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar’s head bobbed along, his face steady. His words sounded sage in a way he was not. “That’s right. See, I told you I have a map.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger walked to the side, tugging Dunbar along with him. The Chaplain - who had been walking on the far right of the group - nudged Yossarian as gently as he could in the side. “Are you certain this was a good idea?” he asked, his voice quivering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole situation made him rather uncomfortable, the same way he usually made people uncomfortable who happened to be unfortunate enough to have a conversation near him. This time, no one was uncomfortable because everyone had simply neglected to acknowledge the Chaplain in the first place - aside from Yossarian - and because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yossarian</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one who acknowledged the Chaplain, he felt a tinge of embarrassment and discomfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian looked over to the Chaplain, who he’d nearly forgotten about as he tried to block out Clevinger and Dunbar’s argument over the nonexistent map in Dunbar’s tent. “No, I think it’s a terrible idea,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This caught the Chaplain off-guard. Most people he’d encountered were anxious to cover up their bad ideas, but not Yossarian. That was one of the few differences between Yossarian and the others on the base. Most people hated him, and with the same energy that everyone teased Yossarian with, the Chaplain felt pity for him. Here they both were overwrought to get off the base before dying, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to get Yossarian out of his missions. To be fair, the Chaplain tried to reason, Yossarian couldn’t do a damn thing either to get the Chaplain out of his prayers preceding the missions. It seemed they were both at an impasse. The Chaplain fidgeted for a few listless moments before patting Yossarian on the arm. “It’s… okay. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad of an idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for actually coming,” Yossarian said, “I didn’t think you were going to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think I was going to either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a good man, Chaplain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain didn’t think he was a very good man. Good men didn’t agree to go on dates with other men who show up in their dreams sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are too… Yossarian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian agreed with this statement with about as much fervour as the Chaplain did. Good men didn’t ask Anabaptist chaplains to go on dates just because they fell in love with them in hospital wings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed they were both at another impasse.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Exactly two days ago, the Chaplain had been sitting in a tent deciding whether or not he should follow the orders that told him to attend the officers club </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> the orders that told him he should never show his timid face there. It was the hardest, simplest, and only decision the Chaplain had made that day. Later, he expected he’d go check up on Yossarian, like usual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian had been out of the hospital for a mere five days, but the Chaplain had made his best efforts to visit him each day and see if there was something he could bring him. It seemed the very least he could do, and his visits allowed him a glance into the minutiae of the soldiers although the Chaplain knew the way Yossarian spent his days bore little resemblance to anyone else on Pianosa. He liked to think he was a good man to grant another some solace, even if there wasn’t anything he could help Yossarian with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down the path, Yossarian had just finished a quotidian lunch talking to Nately and several other people who called themselves his friends. A couple of them, Yossarian called his friends, too. The Chaplain’s tent would be en-route back to his - or, he learned it would be when Milo explained to him that Colonel Cathcart had assigned the Chaplain new lodgings. The lodgings had been far from </span>
  <em>
    <span>new</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Milo reasoned that by reusing old tents rather than purchasing new ones, they were doing the syndicate an excellent favor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The syndicate remembers favors,” Milo had extenuated, itching at his awful caterpillar moustache with a wiry finger, “Remember, Yossarian, the syndicate benefits everyone because everyone has a share. The Chaplain might not be comfortable, but what a small price to pay for something that benefits everyone. Who knows, maybe that extra money will result in a crate of fresh apricots someday! You like apricots, don’t you, Yossarian?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian did not, in fact, like apricots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then,” Milo frowned, and the mangy caterpillar wiggled across his face, unperturbed, “Surely it will come around for something you do like. Even if it doesn’t, it will benefit everyone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> because they all have shares too. I like you, Yossarian, but the syndicate isn’t there for just one Yossarian, now is it? Even the Chaplain has a share, maybe he likes apricots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian thought this was far too much talk about apricots, which he was also certain the Chaplain did not like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He left the mess hall a few minutes later, determined to find the tent himself and decide if he could make heads or tails of it. It’d be a pleasant change from the Chaplain always having to come visit him, which he had been counting on happening again on this particular day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian stared for a second at the flap of the Chaplain’s tent before giving it a tumultuous shake. Had there been a door, he would have just barged in, but this was a tent and Yossarian decided the Chaplain deserved a little more privacy than he would’ve gotten with a regular office like Major Major had. Inside the tent, the Chaplain startled and dropped a pile of papers to the ground with consternation. “W-who is it?” he stumbled, picking up the files.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s me, Yossarian,” said Yossarian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waited until it sounded like the Chaplain had rectified whatever mess he’d made. “Can I come in, Father?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes, of course. Come in, Yossarian. And you- you really don’t need to call me ‘Father’. I’m an Anabaptist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian stepped into the besmirched little tent. It really was quite pathetic, and for a second he wanted to take pity on the Chaplain and let him stay in his tent, which was substantially nicer than any of the other Pianosa tents. Orr had made certain of that, in his own little insufferable way. Yossarian remembered he didn’t really like roommates; one plump, ugly Orr was dreadful enough. Still, he felt sorry for the Chaplain - after all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn’t Orr. Yossarian took a cumberous stance, one foot within the tent as he scrutinized the quarters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain didn’t know what to say, but he spoke anyway. “Colonel Cathcart gave me this tent while you were in the hospital. I- I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s not so bad. Anyway, I was… going to visit you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still can. I’m not flying any missions today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” the Chaplain swallowed his previous thoughts and continued on, “It’s okay. Can I… can I help you with something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian kicked at the dirt. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…? What is it?” he asked, perpetuating a solid but gentle tone of voice. Yossarian liked that voice, it was relaxing in an apprehensive sort of way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve thought of something you could do for me,” Yossarian let the words sink in and spoke again </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> when it looked like the Chaplain might say something. “It isn’t getting me out of combat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain smiled and wrung his hands together under the desk. He had long fingers which could gracefully do many things - or they could’ve, had they not been devoted to impatient movements when he became timorous. The Chaplain was unfailingly timorous, but he gave a weak smile all the same. “I’m sorry I can’t get you out of combat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian smiled back. “I’m sorry about that too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try to, but you know I don’t have that kind of authority. I would if I could, believe me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll set up meetings with people, I’ll try. I meant to speak to some people before but Cathcart wanted me to work on prayers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s too bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, he doesn’t ask too much,” the Chaplain insisted, trying to avoid Yossarian pitying him when Yossarian was the one in the war.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He keeps raising the mission count,” Yossarian put in, hoping to garner some pity for fighting in the war.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s too bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is too bad,” Yossarian said agreeably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain wrung his hands again and tried not to scuff at the floor like Yossarian, who was kicking up a full-on dust storm in the entrance of the tent. “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> I do for you, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian thought for a moment. It wasn’t a very decent thing to ask, especially not of a Chaplain. Then again, what did decency matter when Colonel Cathcart might just order him to his death tomorrow? “I’d like to take you on a date. On Thursday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-” the Chaplain sputtered, “Yossarian, I have a wife and kids back home! I thought you meant something like toys or books or- or cigarettes. Maybe even, I don’t know-” he tossed his hands in the air, “at most a backrub or something! Or someone to take a walk with or talk to or- or something like that! Not a date!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian put the other things the Chaplain had mentioned on a mental list of what he’d ask for in the future. “Still,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still,” the Chaplain agreed. For once, he didn’t realize what he was saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian smiled like it was a good-natured chaff, tugging with one hand at the thick canvas of the tent. “So you’re agreeing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That stopped the Chaplain in his tracks. “Well- I mean- wouldn’t it be indecent for it to be just the two of us? Wouldn’t people suspect something? And I’m-” he took a moment to bemoan their circumstances, “I’m a Chaplain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian’s grin widened, which made the Chaplain noticeably discomfited. “Who said it’d be just the two of us?”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Dunbar spent nearly as much time with Clevinger as he did breathing, which initially spurred Yossarian into instructing him not to come with the Chaplain and himself. He sat across from Dunbar in the officer’s club, which he attended notably because of the pride he felt from being within it. That night, Milo wasn’t there, but Clevinger was so Dunbar had a decent enough reason to go himself. “Tell me again what you did,” Dunbar said, chugging his glass of water with intent. He didn’t like water very much, which was an excellent reason to have as much of it as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going on a date with the Chaplain and you’re not invited,” Yossarian said simply, “It’s going to be awful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar thought about this. “The Chaplain?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, the Chaplain,” Yossarian replied dreamily, taking a moment to make a point to Dunbar, “and you’re still not invited.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you suppose it’ll feel like a long time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The longest,” Yossarian reassured, “Clevinger might be there, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gave Dunbar something to mull over. Yossarian watched him with a fixed gaze. Dunbar seemed so somber he may as well have been lying in the coffin at his own funeral. Yossarian decided he didn’t like thinking about Dunbar’s funeral. “I can’t very well join you on your date, can I?” Dunbar asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you can’t,” Yossarian said defensively, “It’s my date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why did you invite Clevenger?” Dunbar bumbled childishly, “He wouldn’t be interested in your date. He wouldn’t be interested in talking to you. He’s just… not interested.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Interesting,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Yossarian corrected, tapping on the table to bring Dunbar’s attention back, “He’s just not interesting. Besides, I’m not inviting him, you are. I’d have to be crazy to invite him on </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> date, and,” he added definitively, leaning back in repose against the wall, “I’m not crazy. It’s everyone else who is.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Clevinger was certain Dunbar had finally gone over the edge. He hated walking, but Dunbar didn’t seem to mind and Clevinger didn’t like the idea of being the ingrate of the group. “You don’t make any sense,” Clevinger told Dunbar, “You haven’t got a map and you don’t know how to reach Milo’s mess tent. Who even decided you should lead in the first place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.” Dunbar said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger had no response to this. He couldn’t see much of a point to the journey in the first place. “I’m sure Yossarian over there is planning some sort of scheme to prove he’s not fit for combat,” he insisted in a loud whisper, using a subtle shoulder motion to point out Yossarian and the Chaplain, “See? Just like he always does. I’ll prove him wrong, too, that son of a bitch! He just lazes around in the hospital all day. He’s crazy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From about ten feet away, Yossarian called, “I’m trying to stay alive! You’re crazy.” He pivoted back to face the Chaplain. “If I were any good at being crazy, I’d be out of here by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger turned back to Dunbar, who had begun to remove his wristwatch to rewind it to a time which suited him better. The little sidewinder turned neatly, rolling the bars marking the time around and back in sweet circles. “What are you doing, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Giving myself ten more minutes,” Dunbar answered, pleased with himself, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Doing</span>
  </em>
  <span> something pointless makes time go slower, you know. I’ll set it back to the right time before I go to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> time </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> since no one else has a watch.” Clevinger ground his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian interrupted them again. “I have a watch!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yossarian,” the Chaplain glanced at Yossarian’s arm timidly, “You know it’s evening, right? This says it’s noon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t say it had the right time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See? I have a watch, I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have the time for any of you!” Clevinger spat, yanking Dunbar backward by the untucked portion of his spearpoint shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar gasped. “If you go about having no time all the time, you’ll have a very short life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whether or not I have some time or no time doesn’t have anything to do with how long my life is, just like turning your watch back won’t give you extra minutes. That’s not how it works, did you ever think about that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what do you suggest I do then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger contemplated that. “Eat healthily, get exercise, sleep enough, and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And fly more missions for Cathcart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well- yes. That’s our mission, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t asking about the mission, I was asking what’s going to keep us alive for the longest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger paused. “You’re nearly as bad as Yossarian, you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just trying to stay alive,” Dunbar said, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> crazy.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The sun was nearly obscured over the horizon, and if Clevinger looked the other way, he could pretend that Yossarian wasn’t even there. Besides, he had Dunbar to argue with, and appending Yossarian to the conversation would have created a greater commotion than Clevinger wanted right then. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, correct, his studies left him more of a genius than Galileo, Rene Descartes, and Confucius all wrapped together in one. In a world filled with insanity, Clevinger could see himself explaining everything, drawing the lines, and letting them </span>
  <em>
    <span>see.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “What about you and your time business? Isn’t that crazy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar shook his head. “I’m adding time to my life. The less of it I enjoy, the more time is added on. It moves more slowly. If you enjoy it, it flies. If I slow it, it inches by, and I get a much longer life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Clevinger thought aloud, gesticulating madly at the air with each word, “So… since you perceive more of it, then it seems like you have more of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar nodded. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> have more of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do know that they perceive the same amount if they have a decent time, don’t you”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>they?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daneeka and McWatt. They perceive the same amount of daylight hours, regardless of if they enjoy it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar agreed harmoniously to the first part. To the second, he asked, “Do you think I have enough money for dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did Milo tell you it’d cost?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yossarian said Milo said it would be 39 dollars.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger sighed - he didn’t see why Dunbar would go trusting Milo - or Yossarian, for that matter - in the first place. That was until, of course, he remembered that Dunbar ultimately didn’t care what happened as long as he lived and had the chance to be miserable. “And how much do you have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thirty-nine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirty-nine. Clevinger was hopeful. He tucked one hand into his pocket, feeling the last sliver sun burning into his corneas with such force it may as well have been a bomb blinding him. “By thirty-nine, you do mean dollars, don’t you?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course. What else would I be talking about?” Dunbar asked with demure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in a very short time, Clevinger didn’t have something to say. Dunbar, on the other hand, did. “What’ll you bet that Milo’s going to be a limp bastard when we get there?”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Will we get there anytime soon?” the Chaplain asked Yossarian, who had to take a second to think about it. He hoped they wouldn’t have to go further than the Chaplain wanted, as Yossarian liked the Chaplain and wanted to protect him in the same way he would’ve liked to protect Nurse Duckett. He had the same gentle nature Nurse Duckett didn’t have, and for that Yossarian felt a sense of longing and desire to both be with and protect the Chaplain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll ask Dunbar,” he said, “Dunbar! Will we be there soon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian wanted to know why it was taking so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going the long way,” Dunbar explained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Clevinger moaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate walking. So, I picked the road that would have more walking and rougher terrain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was both a fundamental and sincere reason, and in a unanimous group decision, it was established that the Chaplain would pick the road back. The group was concordant that Yossarian couldn’t be trusted and Clevinger would be pestiferous as the group leader. The only person who </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to lead was the Chaplain, which was precisely why he made the best option. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Father. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job leading us back,” Yossarian reassured, patting the Chaplain on the back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to call me Father, Yossarian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Yossarian acknowledged, scratching at the top of his head, “I’ll just call you Chaplain, then.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Two days ago, after Yossarian had left his tent, the Chaplain buried his head in his hands. What had he been thinking, to agree to such a nonsense thing? It was one thing to promise Yossarian to try and aid him in his escape from combat and homicide, but it was another to find himself nodding along in beguilement as Captain Yossarian explained how he’d very much like to take him on a date. Despite his very best percipience, he’d agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the beginning of his deployment, the Chaplain had lay in bed every night dreading the moment he fell asleep and saw visions of his two darling children and lovely wife dying, injured, or something much worse and possibly unfathomable. The times the Chaplain couldn’t fathom what had happened in the dream, simply returning to an empty house with everything in use but no one using it, those were the worst. Sometimes when Clevinger got drunk and philosophical, he’d say that fear of the unknown was most flagitious of any force, and the Chaplain had found himself agreeing in the quiet reserve of his one-man tent in the nights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> At some point - maybe a while after he’d first met Yossarian in the hospital - his wife and children weren’t the only ones who showed up in the dreams. He’d known dozens of men in his service, but none of the others stuck to his mind as strongly as Yossarian had. The most logical reason for this was how Yossarian was never made nervous by his presence, and had asked him for another hospital visit. The Chaplain buried his head in his rather unforgiving pillow after waking up from a Yossarian dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually, the Chaplain would have put forward his thoughts to friends or kept them to himself, and since Yossarian happened to be the closest thing he had to a friend, the Chaplain kept the thoughts to himself. Still, they danced over him and haunted him endlessly, and after a time he had managed to assure himself that they held no relevance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, everyone had dreams sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the mornings - if he was fortunate - Milo might come from the mess tent and bring him a cup of coffee. The Chaplain much preferred tea and coffee gave him a headache, but receiving it still seemed like a gift. His desk was warped badly, one leg much shorter than the others and propped up by a nubby and frayed washcloth, the likes of which probably hadn’t seen daylight for years. “Milo,” the Chaplain said one morning, “Do you… do you ever have dreams?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Milo said, dusting off a corner of the desk to set the coffee on, “I suppose everyone has them. I just don’t remember mine. In fact, I don’t think anyone really remembers theirs. Unless, of course, you’re talking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreams</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he smiled, dusting his hands off on his apron, “If you’re talking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreams,</span>
  </em>
  <span> then the syndicate is mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The syndicate is a very good one,” the Chaplain put in, even though he didn’t think it was, “I’m sure you’ll be successful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milo gave a laugh that sounded somewhere between a dinner-party charmer and a dying cow. “Of course, Chaplain. I already am.” And with that, he left the tent.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The next time the Chaplain saw Milo was through the dusty flap of his meal tent. A scrumptious scent wafted through the opening, and from within, many officers had already dove into their meals. Dunbar glanced down at his pocket, beginning to take out the money. “Dunbar,” Clevinger asked warily, “Why are they </span>
  <em>
    <span>quarters</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll take longer to count them,” he started, and Clevinger moaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Counting quarters is tedious! Had you any sense at all, you’d have brought neatly filled away bills packed in a leather or string billfold, and then you’d have a map right here,” he poked at Dunbar’s chest, “In your breast pocket. The way you’ve done it, anyone would say you’re squandering your time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plates clattered from within the tent and Milo - who appeared to be quite nonchalantly hard-pressed - finally appeared at the opening. “Milo,” Yossarian said, “We’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes, of course,” Milo glanced around at the small party, all rather tired from their pointlessly long walk, “Business first - have you got the money? Arrangements are already made, of course. I’ve got some exquisite dishes that you absolutely must try! Don’t you know, I have some fine pork tenderloin which was selling for a dollar a pound in Valencia - can you believe it? A dollar a pound!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar passed Milo the quarters, which he nearly dropped as he held out his two hands to collect them. “Thirty-nine,” he said proudly, “I already counted them ten times, you can be sure of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Milo filed through them himself, feeling out each dollar. Yossarian felt more famished by the minute, like his stomach was trying to eat him from the inside out. “This is thirty-nine,” he said, when he’d finally finished counting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it is,” Yossarian told him, “That’s what Dunbar brought when I told him what you told me what it would cost.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milo shook his head, rather resentfully, “I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Clevinger demanded, his already reddish face adopting a new cochineal hue. Yosarian thought it made him look very much like a tomato, which was likely one of the parts of dinner which would be served. “We’ve got the money you asked for, and we walked all this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milo looked very innocent and rather weary. His eyebrows wiggled as he spoke. “As of the last two minutes, the price has gone up to forty,” he glanced sheepishly at Clevinger, “After all, I must make sure there’s enough to be able to begin investments in Crete, I’ve heard that they have an excellent new sort of candies and olives, both of which will go for an excellent price in Verona.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t suppose there is anything else we could offer you,” the Chaplain put in helpfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milo shook his head once more, resting an arm on the tent flap. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can have my shoes,” Yossarian said, bending down to take one off. He untied one and put it in Milo’s hands on top of the quarters. Milo scrambled to press the money - and black regulation shoes - closer to his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stared at Yossarian wide-eyed. “What do you suppose I do with your shoes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They cost you absolutely nothing, so presumably whatever you do with them will get you more than you got them for. I’d like the laces back, I could still use them for something,” he began to unthread the laces from one of the shoes, tucking the final lace back into his pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milo stared blankly as though his mind had shut down almost entirely. His face beaded up with sweat, the inside of the tent toasty on the already-warm Pianosa night. Still, when he finally spoke, he sounded hopeful. “What will you do with just the laces of the shoes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get new shoes,” Yossarian answered matter-of-factly, “In fact, you can have all my shoes from here on out, if they’ll keep giving me new ones. Or maybe I’ll keep them and give them off to anyone else who happens to want a pair of shoes.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Who are they?”</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“The people giving me new shoes.”</span></p><p><span>“Who are those people?”</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“They.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“How- how do you get new shoes from the laces?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The same way Havermeyer gets targets for skeet shooting,” he replied, which was rather a non-answer but Milo drank it in just the same, “Now can we come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have forty. Go back, get forty, and I’ll see what I can do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian groaned, massaging his temples. He was hungry and thirsty, both of which Milo could remedy but </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Can’t you give us a discount?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milo lowered his voice, using his upper arm to brush off the beads of sweat which stuck riotously to his forehead. He’d been working diligently the whole day, and it showed clearly on his face and figure. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> giving you a discount. All those officers in there are paying sixty! Now, that’s that, go grab the money and we’ll talk. Remember, just another dollar.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The group began their journey back to Clevinger’s tent, which happened to be the nearest to the ridiculously distant mess tent. The Chaplain made the decision to return via the main airstrip, although it would be less peaceful than taking a more distant path away from the tents. Yossarian took off his socks and walked barefoot beside the Chaplain, and Dunbar did the same - not because he didn’t have shoes, but because it made him uncomfortable and so the shorter walk seemed longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the far side of the airfield, Yossarian could hear the desperate screams of a man whose plane had crashed, the fine exterior metal chipping away into fragments on the compact dirt, pressed down from hundreds of planes and flights roaring over it and the tarmac daily. Everyone else in the plane must have been dead, the stench of a smoldering engine filling up everyone’s senses. Yossarian’s tongue felt unwieldy in his mouth, but at the same time, he felt nothing, the importuning screams and shouts filling up the background noise and field of his daily life. The man had a large nose and a meager mouth which opened surprisingly wide as he cried out, both of his legs trapped helplessly under the impassable metal jungle. “Help me!” he screamed, his uluations ignored by the men who rushed to extinguish the rapacious blazes. At last, the fire covered him and he quieted. Another casualty. Yossarian frowned - first, one was an unnamed civilian, an unnamed cadet, then an unnamed soldier, and lastly an unnamed casualty who may or may not receive some form of funeral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From another tent, a woman yelled out, quickly silenced by a hand. One of the hospital nurses - Dunbar recognized - one unfortunate enough to have been attacked - or perhaps assaulted. The button-up nightgown had the top torn off in some places, and her face appeared sunken in with trepidation. Sweat burrowed on her brow, her hair left in unruly tangles which spun down her back. She sprinted up to him, grabbing him by the lapels with tense fingers. “Please, can you- can you-” she stuttered, barely able to form a full sentence. Dunbar nodded, undid his watch, and handed it to her. She ran off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do that for?” Clevinger asked, who’d been trying to avoid the horrors of the air strip, “She wanted you to protect her or something. I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought maybe she needed more time,” he said, “So I gave it to her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good God!” Clevinger groaned, forgetting he was in the presence of the Chaplain - who didn’t care - and Dunbar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar stepped back aghast, eyes widened as though he were having a heart attack. He put one hand up to his chest dramatically, right on the spot where he ought to have put a map. “There is no God!” he exclaimed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean that, and you know it!” Clevinger snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s still no God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who cares if there’s a God or not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The both of you, shut the hell up or I’ll knock your heads in!” Yossarian called.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, we’re having a conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the love of God, it’s an </span>
  <em>
    <span>argument!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is no God!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain didn’t intervene.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Yossarian stood just outside the briefing room with little care surrounding how the rest of the day went, as long as he didn’t wind up dying. Orr had again offered for Yossarian to fly with him, but like the time before it, Yossarian turned him down hard. “Why won’t you fly with me? I’m an excellent pilot, one of the very best!” he grinned in his gawky little Orr way, and Yossarian pitied him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You always crash,” Yossarian told him without a hint of laughter, “If I wanted to die, I’d be glad to join your plane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Orr just laughed with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tee-hee-hee-hee</span>
  </em>
  <span> and walked away. “If I was going to die, I’d be dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The briefing meeting went as well as could have been expected, with Danby muddling his way through another quick explanation of everything they’d need to know and the Chaplain, trying to offer a prayer which didn’t include the concept of God in it so Cathcart could have the officers and the men praying to different Gods. After the prayer, Yossarian waited for the Chaplain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you are!” he exclaimed as the Chaplain left the tent. He clapped him on the shoulder lightly, “I was hoping I’d see you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad to see you too, Yossarian - you’re doing alright, out of the hospital, I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it’s a shame,” he sighed rather dejectedly. “They decided my liver condition wasn’t so bad after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” the Chaplain said, “It’s good that it’s getting better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t say that it is,” Yossarian replied, “I still have all the symptoms, it just doesn’t feel so bad, which I guess is why they put me back in combat. It doesn’t feel so bad because I haven’t got a liver condition at all, but the symptoms are enough to let me in the hospital. It’s very awfully convenient. Next time I’m in the hospital, you ought to come. It’s a fine way to spend the afternoon, all you have to do is eat what they bring you and censor the letters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought back to writing about tragic yearning, and the Chaplain’s name. The Chaplain would fit right in there, next to Dunbar and himself and whichever sorry soul happened to legitimately be sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t very well join you, I have my duties,” the Chaplain affirmed sadly, “I’m afraid I don’t have symptoms like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t,” Yossarian agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really is too bad about your liver condition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have to go now?” the Chaplain inquired, glancing at the large metal planes which had been prepared over on the distant tarmac.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good lu-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask you for something?” Yossarian asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain nodded softly, thinking about the date for the next night he’d already agreed to. Whatever Yossairan was going to ask for, it couldn’t possibly be… more than a date - could it? “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I have a kiss goodbye?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain looked left, then he looked right, then he stepped back behind the side of the tent where he was mostly obscured from anyone else’s line of sight. He gestured to Yossarian, and gave him a quick and light kiss on the cheek. When Yossarian glanced at the Chaplain’s face next, it had changed from pale to a flustered rose, which would be rather telling if anyone saw it. “See you later,” he told the Chaplain, heading off to his plane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you later,” the Chaplain murmured back, still reveling in what he’d just done.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Clevinger collected the money, this time in the form of a dollar bill. They had left Yossarian’s shoes and the massive pile of quarters with Milo, even though Dunbar protested about leaving the quarters as carrying them made each second nearly three times as long as walking without shoes did. It would only be another five minutes until they reached the tent, all keeping up a reasonably steady pace - much to Dunbar’s chagrin. The Chaplain and Yossarian had gone on ahead, giving the others a little more space. It had actually been because Clevinger could be annoying, and Yossarian preferred to be away from his impudently loud voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you bring me with you, anyway?” Clevinger fidgeted, “I don’t understand you the tiniest bit, you know. Everything you do contradicts - well, everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar shrugged as though he was indifferent to the entire situation. He hadn’t mentioned the date factor, just that he wanted to bring Clevinger with him and that he’d pay for him. “I like being with you,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Clevinger sounded surprised, “I thought you </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> being </span>
  <em>
    <span>miserable</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Walking without shoes, laying on your cot all day while you atrophe, carrying what must’ve been a pound of quarters-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not really being miserable. It’s making the most of time-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Least</span>
  </em>
  <span> of time, you really aren’t doing so much, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m doing plenty, I’m making my life much longer-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Seem</span>
  </em>
  <span> like it’s longer, it’s not-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What’s the point of making your life longer if you aren’t going to spend it doing anything worthwhile?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am doing something worthwhile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Making it longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why’d you bring me?” Clevinger asked, both sudden and triumphant at how he’d caught Dunbar in what seemed like a contradiction, “If you want to make it longer and to make it longer you can’t do things you enjoy - I know you hate Appleby and that’s why you talk to him - then why bring me if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> my time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You make the time go slow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clevinger thought about that. “If I offered you my hand, how’d that make time go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dunbar reached over, taking Clevinger’s hand in his as they walked. They could hear crickets along the path, rustling in the high grass behind some of the tents. Milo’s mess tent lay in front of them like the Pantheon, lit up and bright, welcoming the hungry worshippers who cared to visit. At last, Dunbar spoke. “Slower.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Milo stood at the opening again, waiting for the guests. Clevinger reached into his pocket and pulled out the dollar, passing it deftly to Milo. He took it with an almost despondent smile, looking at the hungry people. “Can we come in?” the Chaplain asked, doing his best to be polite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve now given me forty, right?” Milo asked, scratching at his moustache. His apron still seemed perfectly pristine, although he’d been working to make whatever the meal happened to be for the past several hours. “Ah yes, with the thirty-nine in the back and this dollar, you’ve made it to forty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So? What’s wrong with it now?” Yossarian demanded, holding one hand out dramatically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The price is now forty-one. To keep up with Crete trading demands, of course.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Clevinger and Dunbar parted from the Chaplain and Yossarian as they returned to their tents. No one was willing to make the walk again, and while Clevinger had been pugnacious about the whole situation, Yossarian managed to convince him that if Milo were going to spend his time being a stingy, pertinacious bastard, no one would be able to change him. Money was Milo’s life, and if someone didn’t have it, then Milo didn’t care much about what happened to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yossarian trotted beside the Chaplain as though he were obedient, which couldn’t have been further from the truth about Yossarian. Yossarian stood outside his tent. “I am sorry the… the whole date didn’t really work out,” the Chaplain said, almost like a confession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,” Yossarian said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I should be heading back to my tent now,” the Chaplain told him, rather remorsefully as his graceful fingers fumbled clumsily with each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose so,” Yossarian lamented. He thought back to the state of the Chaplain’s tent. The dirty floor, holes in the outside of the dense and soundless canvas. He’d like to protect him from it, even though it was a tent and couldn’t actually harm the Chaplain in any way. “Wait- you can stay in my tent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you didn’t like roommates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a cot in there I could-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Orr crashed his plane on the milk run the other day, but he’ll probably be back in the morning. There’s Mudd’s, but it has his duffle on it. It’s a six person tent, there’s more than enough room. It’s also the least cold of any of them when the temperature drops. There isn’t really another cot. You could share with me, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I could. Would you be alright with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that.” Yossarian reassured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Chaplain stumbled. “I- I would too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As close to hand-in-hand as they could’ve been without being hand-in-hand, Yossarian and the Chaplain headed into the tent for the evening. Yossarian let down the flaps behind him, the closest he could come to closing the door. From the outside of the tent, Yossarian overheard a voice yelling: “Cathcart raised the missions again!”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Reviews are love! Wishing you a very nice day!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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